


Silent Jackson

by TheDark_Beyond_Time



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Ego shenanigans, I guess I need a, Jameson Jackson’s (headcanon) history, because I love that hc too much, formatted writing, my take on a backstory, stylized writing, tag as well huh, time-traveller!JJ, zalgo text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 07:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDark_Beyond_Time/pseuds/TheDark_Beyond_Time
Summary: In which a young man learns that the war was nowhere near his final — or his worst — struggle.JSEgos: Jameson Jackson: Author HC: BackstoryForgive me, for I cannot summarize to save my life.





	Silent Jackson

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the purpose of putting it up around Halloween for the boi’s birthday but I got a bit delayed. Here it is though! It exists!
> 
> This took so long to format, you have no idea
> 
> My first officially posted fanwork — technically one of my first official fanworks in general — so I’m open to criticisms!  
> I hope you enjoy~

          Jameson Jackson. Not the most skilled soldier by any means, but willing to lay down his life for those he accepted in friendship. He was defensive, protective, and friendly, no matter the costs. A decent shot, too.  
          But most importantly, he was a survivor.

          When he returned, those he knew were ecstatic. “We were worried,” they cried through embraces, “We thought you weren’t returning.”  
                            Jameson Jackson,  
                                                      battered  
                                                      bloodied  
                                                      bruised  
                                                                    but alive.  
                                                                    He had survived.  
                                                                    He had made it back.  
“And I’m never leaving you again.”

          A few months passed.  
          Jameson readapted to life at home.  
          …  
          Then he found the watch.  
          Jameson had been walking around town with a friend and her young son when a metallic glint caught his eye from near the front of an alleyway. He told his companions to wait for him as he bent down to examine the item closer.  
          It was a traditional pocketwatch, golden-bronze in color, and though the paint was chipped in places — revealing a smudgy silver undertone — it looked in decent shape.  
                                                                              But…  
                                                                                     …what was it doing in an alleyway?

          “What’d you find, Mr. Jamie?” his friend’s son called out, curious. Jameson smiled, and walked back over to the group, kneeling do  
                 wn to show the young boy his treasure.  
          The boy stared at it, eyes wide, as Jameson turned it over in his hands. Along the sides, the dials for winding the watch and setting the time were accompanied by an extra dial, shining bright silver and looking slightly out of place. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Jameson stood back up and clicked the watch open.  
          It seemed…  
                         …  
                         …normal.

  
          That is, it would, if you didn’t know where to look. But Jameson did, and so he noticed fairly quickly that there was an extra symbol etched in near the top — MCMXLIV or 1944, the current year — along with a piece of metal with a word on it.  
At that moment, it read  
FORWARDS.  
but Jameson soon realized that the piece of metal was loose, and he could flip it over.  
He did so.  
It now read  
.SDRAWKCAB

          He flipped it back to forwards, and began to fiddle with the strange dial. As he did, the etched number shifted as the dial clicked.  
          A turn. MCMLIV. 1954.  
          Another turn. MCMLXIV. 1964.  
          Two presses. MCMLXVI. 1966.

          Jameson looked up at his friend and her son, smiling. “Well, let’s see what this does!”  
He  
                                   Clicked  
                                                                                    The  
                                                                                                                         Pocketwatch  
                                                                                                                                                                              Shut.

The watch ticked  
and ticked  
and  
T  
        I  
              C  
D      K  
E  
And the adventure began.

  
          The pocketwatch was a time machine.  
          Or, some channel for time jumping, at the very least.  
          Jameson learned the rules fairly quickly. Every turn of the dial added or subtracted 10 years, based on whether the metal plate was flipped “forwards” or “backwards.” The same thing applied to simply pressing the dial, only it moved just one year then.  
          He didn’t tell even his closest friends until he was entirely certain what it was and what it was doing. The girl, whom he was with when he’d found the watch, simply nodded: after he had  
                                                                                                V  
                                                                                                A  
                                                                                                N  
                                                                                                I  
                                                                                                S  
                                                                                                H  
                                                                                                E  
                                                                                                D  
                                                                                                   before her very eyes — even if only for a split second — and returned seemingly out of breath, she’d had her own theories.  
          The others, however, were harder to convince.  
          “I swear to you, I’ve seen the turnings of time!” Jameson said, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. “I’ve touched buildings not yet built, and encountered people not yet born. I’ve shook hands with famous men long dead, and witnessed the building of monuments now considered historic wonders!”  
          And still they doubted, for he had no evidence. “Bring us a relic from the past or future,” they said, smiling — they knew he would fail. “Then we will believe you.”  
He  
          set  
                    the  
                               dial  
                                          for MDCCCXXXVII: 1837. The farthest back Jameson had ever gone.

The pocketwatch was clicked shut, and before the very eyes of his skeptical friends, his form seemed to  
l      c      e  
F      i      k      r  
before  
vanishing completely.

  
          Blink and you’ll miss it, for within a second, Jameson had returned.  
          He stumbled in place, looking out of breath, and held up what seemed to be a hair clip, smiling. “Here’s your ‘relic,’” he said, handing it to his friends. “An authentic Victorian Era hairpin.”  
          It was beautiful, golden in color with small jewels set into the crown of it. Carved neatly on one of the tines was the name of a manufacturing company long since closed and a date.  
          22 November, 1835.  
          Jameson’s female friend inherited the pin, and the two men never doubted again.

          Months past.  
          Then came Jamie’s birthday.  
          He was lucky enough to have been born on the celebration of All Hallow’s Eve — Halloween, in simpler terms — because it meant that the traditional festivities were always treated as a birthday celebration as well. Some of his friends thought it was unlucky, however, and that one day, the bad luck of being born on such a date would catch up to him.  
          Jameson never believed them.

          H̶͙͛̓͐ȇ̴̮ ̷̞̋s̷̼̭̃͜h̴͍͋̓o̷̟͐̓ų̶̽̕l̵̦̒̈́d̶̻̟̲̈́ ̴͉̲͆̉̓h̶̢̘̣̔̈́̈́a̵̫̩̘͂͒v̷̮̻̳̊͝ḙ̴͌̿͂ͅ.̴̲̹̻̎̽

          On the day of his 27th birthday, he decided to forego the festivities and simply spend the day with his friends. The small band of four, practically linked at the wrists since childhood, spent all day indulging on food and other goods from various shops around town.  
          Late into the night is when the topic came up.  
          The children had long since stopped heading from house to house, leaving the four of them with practically no chance of interruption.  
          Henry, older than Jameson by nearly two years, was the one to ask it.  
          “So, when’s the furthest forward you’ve ever jumped?”  
Jameson paused.  
Thought.  
Then answered, “I don’t believe I’ve ever gone past the 20th century, though I did stay once to witness the turn.”  
          “Well, how far can you jump?” Another voice. William.  
          “I’m not rightly sure,” Jamie said after a pause. “Though I can find out!”  
          He twiddled his mustache — his pride and joy, having let it grow out after returning from the war — as he worked, turning and clicking the dial until the number no longer shifted.  
                         MMMCCCXLIX  
                         3349  
          Jameson told them the number, and Henry perked up. “That sure is far,” he said wistfully. “Wonder what it’s like then.”  
          Jamie picked up on his request almost instantly, and smiled. “I’ll be sure to let you know,” he said, clicking the watch shut.

          The colors of the time stream ranged from pale yellow to dark gold as he flowed through them. He only ever entered this secret area of interwoven timelines during particularly long jumps, when the mechanisms in the watch thought it necessary to ensure that he didn’t get… lost in transit, for lack of a better term.  
          This was by far his longest jump yet, but it felt like only a few seconds before he came to a screeching halt.  
          A pained wheeze escaped his lips as he ran into a seemingly invisible wall. Something had stopped his progress. He started to feel around for some way of bypassing the block before a sting against his back drew his attention.  
Another.  
And another.  
He barely managed to t  
                                     u  
                                           r  
                                                n  
                                                a  
                                           r  
                                     o  
                             dnu  
                   before he felt a sharp, continuous pain against his spine.  
          He let out a scream.  
          The time stream was collapsing behind him.  
 _It wasn’t built for delays,_ Jameson thought to himself as he attempted to silence his screaming, gritting his teeth against the pain. _I…_ _I_ _have to find a way past this block, or else it’ll be taking me down with it!_  
          The pain became nearly too much to bear then, as the links between timelines shattered and whipped across his back, his arms, his legs. He let out another scream, his throat becoming more sore, his vocal cords becoming more worn.  
          That continued for what felt like minutes, but was really only a few more agonizing seconds, before it stopped.

There was bliss in the darkness that consumed him then, though only for a second. Then there was a hand, gripping his shoulder tightly with clawed fingers, tearing him back to reality and into…  
                                                                                                  Into …  
                                                                                                         … A chair?  
          Yes, he was seated in a small, plastic chair, behind a large table covered with a checker-patterned tablecloth. On the table were a few pumpkins, along with a knife, a spoon, and various other carving tools, a large plastic bowl, and a few candles.  
          He let out a yelp of surprise, but it came out quiet and scratchy — he _had_ just been screaming, he reasoned, as he began to pat himself down, looking for his pocketwatch.  
          It was only then that he noticed the camera set up in front of the table. He had seen contraptions like this on his various adventures before, and he knew that the red light blinking in the top corner meant that it was taking a video — something he still didn’t quite understand the concept of, but he knew very basically how it worked.  
          The camera seemed to be… recording, he believed was the term, so he began to speak to it, as he had seen people doing in times before.  
          “By golly!” he rasped, regretting his decision to talk immediately — he must sound like the pits of hell! “My mouth don’t do sound good no more!” The sentence didn’t make sense, but he could care less. He just had to figure out what was going on.  
          He continued looking for his watch. “But… when am I?” He didn’t care about how strange the sentence would sound to whoever saw the recording, he was mostly talking to himself at this point.  
          He soon found the watch, pulling it out and clicking it open to read the number inside. Though it was somewhat scratched out — probably due to having been pulled out of the stream prematurely — he was vaguely able to make out an MMXVII, or 2017. “Jeepers,” he muttered to himself, “that’s far too early!”  
          Jamie sat there for a second, twiddling his mustache. “Well, this is a fine pickle,” he said to the camera. “What do I do now?”  
          Only then did he remember the supplies. _Of course,_ he thought, _it’s_ _still_ _All_ _Hallow’s_ _Eve_ _here, isn’t it?_  
          He sorted through the pumpkins until he had decided on a decent-sized one, spouting reasons towards the camera for each one he threw away. “This one looks bad! This one smells! This one makes a peculiar noise!”  
          “Now that’s a pumpkin, sir!” he said, holding up the one he had chosen. “Now, time to set the mood.”

          Jameson continued to go through the motions, using a box of matches he found to light the candles and carving the pumpkin. _It’s_ _been_ _a_ _while_ _since_ _I’ve_ _done this,_ he thought to himself as he went, narrating his actions to the camera every now and again.  
          After what felt like barely a few minutes — time sure flies when you’re having fun — he lit a candle and placed it inside the pumpkin, closing it up. “Bravo!” he said cheerily, still rasping— he would need to rest his voice after this. “A job well done! You deserve a break — after you clean up, that is!”  
          Jiminy Christmas, Jamie felt like he was teaching a tutorial. Nonetheless, he cleaned up the mess on the table and simply sat for a minute. Something’s missing from the pumpkin, he thought, so he moved to grab the knife and keep working on his carving. He had barely made a small cut near the top, however, when the thumb of his other hand managed to find itself in the knife’s path.  
          “Yowzah!” he shouted, grabbing for paper scraps to press against his finger. He had to stop the bleeding, _why_ _was_ _it_ _bleeding so much?_  “That did more than tickle, doc!”  
          He managed to wrap his thumb in paper fairly quickly, but the wrappings were loose — he had to hold them there to keep them from sliding off. He sighed in relief and looked back at the camera, only to notice the light was gone. The recording had stopped.

  
Puzzled, Jamie moved to get up — only to f  
                                                                 a  
                                                                      l  
                                                                          l  
                                                          sdrawkcab  
                                                          When a man appeared in front of him.  
                                                          Or, at least, something looking like a man.

          Its eyes were black, blacker than black, dark as a void threatening to pull him in. Its pointed ears bore gauge earrings, almost as black as it's eyes. It had a bloody gash across its throat, bleeding heavily, but seeming to in no way limit his breathing or speech. “̴̥̌̂́W̸̜̳̏e̸͇̖͌͆͆l̶̜͋l̴̳̺̽̉̕,̷̻̬́̂ ̴̫̓̋͘ẁ̶̻͍̪e̵͕͌̀͂l̴̬͇̭͌̽l̸͈̫͂,̵͙̙̦̋̅̀ ̷̢̬̝̚W̵̯̰̾̌͐e̶̲͇̐l̴͇̩̈́̀l̷̝̹̭̐̕~̸̝̪̞̉̈́̽”̶̡̭̻̔ A male voice came out of its mouth, though it seemed layered, coming out skippy and overlapping. “̷̥̇L̸̞̗͎̑̊ȏ̵͎̞̔̉o̴̦̕k̴͇͂̑̄ ̸̣̞͝ẇ̸͙͒h̸͕͗̏͜ö̶̗̳́̃ ̴̲͓̚d̶͖̠̫͐e̵̘̗͉̔̓c̷̲̓͝͝i̴̢̙̊̅̈́ͅd̶̰͓̲͛́̉e̵̥̯̣̍̋̊d̴̨̂̽͜ ̷̳͓͕͊̍̈́t̸̗̙̎̒͝ǫ̷͙̗̑ ̴̥̭̾̇͗s̷̗̎͂h̷̖̽́̀ǫ̵̥̜̓ẁ̴̹͆̑ ̸̠͖͖̓͊ẖ̴̡͓̀ï̷̖s̵͐̓ͅ ̷͔͖̋f̷͓͕̀͗̎a̸̧̩̒͠͝c̶̨̜͉͋̈́e̷̡͍͝.̸̉ͅ”̶̦̍  
          Jameson's eyes widened as he stumbled back, his back hitting the wall. The entity in front of him seems to teleport forward, ending up right in front of the man with an inhuman grin on his face. “I-I… who…?” Jamie stuttered, his voice sounding even more scratchy than normal.  
          “̵̱̊̈́̑͜S̶͇͎̾͝ḧ̷̗́́͝h̵͓̾h̷̝̲͊͑͛,̷̛͖̭̺̽͠ ̴̭̖́͒s̶̢̱͌h̶͔̲̊h̷͚̟͌̓̅h̵͎̪͊,̷̫́͜ ̷̰͎̓̈͝n̶̻̊̕̚o̸̧̝̒̽̂ ̶̛̣̳̥̀ǹ̶̼̘̒̓ė̵̡̞̭ę̸͚͂ḑ̸̪̽͗͑ ̴̯̹̮̇͒ţ̷̓̀o̵̭͔͂ ̸̫̗̓ṣ̷̮̼́̚͝p̵̞̀̄̈́ẻ̴͇͉̔͐a̶̼̐k̸̼̍̽̕,̷̩̪̐̌̚͜ ̶̆͛̅ͅp̶̝̔ǘ̶̩̪̑̋p̴̰̾̇͐p̵͕̫͂̊͜e̴̪̺͌͛̽t̷͈̍̔͂.̷̟͆ ̷̠͕̗͐̈́Į̵̼͊’̷͉͖͗̎l̴͕̯͆͝ļ̵̲̝͌̽̽ ̸̖̗͒̕͝b̸̺̐͌̚é̷̘̹̫ ̶̝́̒y̷̥͂́o̶͈̝̖̾̊̈́u̵͚̿͝r̸͙͍͝ ̷̢̛̩̘͂v̸͔̈́o̸̻͛͜i̵̧̬̗̋̀̉c̴̛͈̎̊͜͜e̸͚͒ ̴͓̌̓̓n̷̡̼̟͛̋̂ò̶̯̤͒͝w̵̢̟̅̿̃~̶̠͔̀”̴̹̆̍̈́ The entity leaned down, his face barely inches from Jamie's. He put his hand on Jamie's throat and a searing pain shot through his body.  
                            Jamie screamed  
                                     and screamed  
                                           and screamed  
                                                 until he could scream no longer.  
          The entity moved its hand. Jameson tried to say something, but no sound came out  
 _Wh... what?_  
          Jamie reached for his pocketwatch — I have to get out of here, get back to my friends, they'll be able to help me--  
          “̴̬͈̦͛̏L̵̛̯̫̻ọ̵̡͚͑͂̀õ̶͔͇͎͘͝k̷̯̼̫͒̉̎ḯ̸̳̭̝̓n̸̥̙̙̕ğ̶̱̞͍ ̶͙̬̞̂͛̿f̴̖̈̒ờ̶̧̠̟̀r̴͕̥͐ ̷̝̭̿̓͜͝ẗ̵͙̼́͗̆h̶̗̿̈́i̶͓̰̝̽̇͐s̸̙̥͛͑?̶̧͇̅͂͝”̵̩̙̜̀͗ the entity asked, holding the pocketwatch by a green glowing string. Jamie lunged for it, but ended up landing in the entity’s arms. Suddenly, a loud static noise began sounding in Jameson's head, clouding his thoughts and making it hard to think.  
              Hard to move  
              Hard to  
                            Stay  
                                      Awake…

          D̴̘͛̅ò̷̞̤̤̐͝n̵̩̹͐̎͌'̶̼͝ţ̵̳͔̈́ ̴̩̆͆w̶̲̄̓o̷̱͝r̸͖͕̿r̸̛͖͇̂y̵̢͚̌̽ ̴̭́͌̄p̵͓͙̘̅̌͌ù̵͔͗̈p̵̟̈́p̸̛̰̽͂e̸̹̿̽͜͠t̸͍̰̪̔̽͝,̸̨̈́ ̶̨̜̰͒ÿ̸͎́͊̃o̵̦̝̓ù̶̢͖̥ ̵̨͎̞̃̓͗d̸̹̪̲͆̒̚ó̴̝͝n̶̝̼̈́'̶͕̈́̊t̴̤̟̀ ̶͓̺̒ń̴̟̍ĕ̷̖̣̈́ȩ̸̳̓͋ḑ̷͙̆̓ ̸̣̠̈̓t̷̠͒̽̓o̴̭̙͝ ̴̭͍́͝ẅ̸̜̳̭́͌͌ö̷̩̼́̒ͅr̵̢̞̣̍͝r̵̝̠̟͐̈́͑y̴̰̿̍̌ ̵̖͚̈́̓͝a̴̭̓͗b̶̨̬̞͑o̷̲̖̒u̸̱͔̬̓͂͛ţ̷̆͌ͅ ̴̰̃͝y̴̙͘o̶̢͚̊u̸̦͎̗͑̐r̶̢̕ ̴̡̮̖̂̐͑f̴̛̜̙ȑ̷̥i̵̖̒͘ë̸̫̞̹́̄̕n̸͍̼̉̽͠d̴͚̮̆̂̈s̶͚͙̮̎ ̴̺̘͌͗́a̴̧̞͒̒̆ņ̷͉̯̃̈̚y̷̘̅́m̵̹̝̾̌o̴̧̦̱̿r̸̩̞̜̈̀͑ḛ̸̐̃.̸͉͛͑̇ ̴͉̗͉̊͘A̸̙͉͋̄s̵͇̞̰̅ ̸͖̖͔͂l̶͓̲̈̽͑o̵͙̹͊͛n̷̯͖͔̓g̵̤͖̚ ̵̨̨̝͐a̷̙̕s̴̬̪̖͛̉ ̵̼̹̿̆̀ý̵̤̀͗o̵̧̐̃̔u̵̳̹͖̓͛̑ ̴̠̤̑̓d̸̰͎͌͠ǫ̶̦̘̐̈́ ̵̢͒͘w̴̧͋͜h̵̦̦̥̆ä̴̝͈́̊̀t̵̬̺́̄ ̵̘͉̥̊I̴͂̓͜͝ͅ ̵̲̮̗͘s̶̻̮͉͊a̵̧͓̘̅y̶̖̽̅͒ ̵̼̻̀̇͝ͅẇ̷̫̮̈̓h̷̢̙̖̅͊͘e̵̡͖̺̓͝ň̶̯̣̈ ̴̳̜̟͆̈́í̶͕̈́͘t̸͖̜̳̎̎̈ ̵͎̰̆̽̚ͅc̷͉͌ơ̶̹̗̊͘m̵̧̀͆e̴͈̪̲͒̈́̈́s̵̛͉̓̈́ ̴͖̄̔͐d̶̺̟̟͠o̵̞̙̕w̵͇͆̍͝n̴̹͆́ ̴͎̬̇t̴̛̞̒̓ơ̵̻̯̻ ̵̦͗͠i̸̞̜̎t̵̙͆̓͌,̷͔̔̈́ ̵̫͚̟̀y̴̫̙͈͐̏ȯ̶͙̞̬̍ǘ̵̞̊’̷̳̦͔̍́l̶̠̳̠͆̽̓ľ̶͉̼ ̵̡̧͔̾̅̚b̷̧͇̬̐e̴̥̗͗͘ ̷̪̻͊b̶̼͊ȁ̵͕́͠c̵̗̠̜̉̕k̸̩͓͓̑ ̷̗̙̯͂͒̽b̵͔̍̆e̶̙̽̒̉f̸̺̀̈o̵̜̱͖̿ŕ̴͚͙͠e̸̹̗̠͋̈́͝ ̴̢̺͎̌͊͘ṯ̷̹̉h̷͉̊̿e̷̖̪͊̃͆y̸̤͓̖̾͝ ̴̙͆ȩ̴̿̎v̵͖̪͖̀̌ė̵̮̲̈́̃n̴̰͚͋̉͜ ̷̧̛̤̀͝n̸̛͖̟̿̇ö̷̫̭̝̊t̸͙͆̄̃i̸̬̍̈̅c̵̯̺̀͂ė̸͇̟̻ ̶̨̦͌ỳ̸̬̪͒õ̸̤ṳ̴͚̕’̷̡͍͉̂r̴̼̤̝̚e̵̯͎͋̏͋ ̸̥̖͗͋̒ĝ̴͚̳̚ọ̶̡̺́͋̕n̶͈̏̔e̴̺̜̞̅.̶̖̕ ̷͚̐͌̍N̵̳̕͠ō̴̦̘̺̚w̴̝̫͔̃́̌ ̶̱͋̌c̸̩̗̓͐̏ó̸͕̙̆̕m̵̹̀e̸̛͔̋̀ͅ ̸̳͈͆̚w̶͙̌i̶̢̮͌t̶̪̥͑ḧ̴̼́́ ̵͙͠m̵̜̮͂è̷͙̚͝.̵̢̛̛̱͊ ̵͙̥̝́͛͐I̶͎̘̟̓͝ ̴͍͙̄̍h̵̛͓̦̲̓â̶̪̈́̌v̵̺̜͆e̵̛͖̚̚ ̶̗̥̩̑͐̊s̷̮̿͜o̶͈͒̐m̶̢͂͋e̸̥͂̀̚ ̷̡͖̑̽̏f̷̣̫͂̚r̶͓̄̕͠i̴̯̾è̵̫̖͍̐n̴͇̓d̸̡̍̍͊s̶͔̈̈́ ̶͙͎̐̃͝ẘ̶͙̀͒h̴̘̙͙̽̆͠ơ̵̩̆ ̸̫͓̓̄͠a̸̢͐͊͝ȓ̸̛̭e̶͓̻̐ ̵̘̋̅̽j̵̭̺͛͊ṷ̴̈́ș̵͎̒̉t̴̜̔͂ ̴̤̋̈͑ḋ̶͉̦̆͘y̷̡̐́i̶̪̮͑́̓ṇ̶̑́g̵̱̅̽ ̴̘͉̍t̸̤͎͔̍̚õ̶̝̳ ̶̛̜̬̍ḿ̴͎̗͈̉̐e̵͔̎͒ͅe̶̽̍ͅt̶̘͂̆̌ ̵̙̐y̸̯̕o̸̯͓͑̉ų̵̝̱̓.̶̠̝́̈”̶̳́

 


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